Coffee Dance
by Vandenberg
Summary: AU Damas was a well-known warrior; calm and level-headed, a trait that prevailed in the battle field. But being extremely good at one thing usually meant you were utterly disastrous at something else... Poking fun at Father!Damas


Oyako practically means Father and Son in Japanese (or so that's what I've heard). Oh, and don't mind me, i'm just poking fun at Damas actually being a father.

**Claimer: **I own a pillow and maybe some of the weird stuff under my bed, not Jak and Daxter!

**Summary: **[AU] Damas was a well-known warrior; calm and level-headed, a trait that prevailed in the battle field. But being extremely good at _one_ thing usually meant you were utterly disastrous at something else... [Poking fun at Damas]

Enjoy (?). D':

"_" –Speech

'_'-Thoughts

('-')-Kirby?

I tried.

**Coffee Dance** --------------------

Running a city was a very _straining_ job, physically and mentally--although Damas hadn't expected anything less, it didn't hurt to hope... His eyes darted towards the intimidating stack of paperwork; the dread hitting him like lightning, intense and stupefying, the after effects? Much worse... 'At least the pile's a lot smaller than before...' He sighed; he was working in his apartment today because he had grown wary of the coffee/secretary woman at the front office. She _was_ plotting something...

Damas grimaced as something hit him; his sigh had brought up a great deal of dust which was now visible in the feeble sunlight filtering into the dim atmosphere—which the room seemed to generate—from the narrow and grimy window, _decorated_ with bars. A soft pitter-patter echoing throughout the hallway piquing his interest slightly; he spun himself towards the door, —the spinny chairs were a good idea—looking for any excuse to escape the horribly grim reality that was work (even though he'd regret wasting time later...).

The pitter-patter seemed to come closer and closer until there was a questionable thump on his door. Damas lifted himself off the chair, doubtfully reached for the doorknob; pausing and then shrugging, hell, he could take risks!

Grabbing hold of the rusty doorknob, Damas opened the door—loud squeaky noise and all—and was greeted with the sight of his son, Jak, donning a simple blue t-shirt, and a diaper-clad bottom. Said diaper-clad bottom was also, in fact, firmly planted on the gray carpet just outside of Damas' work-room.

After crouching down to his son's level, the two of them, being much too alike, engaged in a staring contest or, to put it more aptly, a tacit battle of wills. Neither party felt the _need_ to break eye-contact so the contest went on for a good twenty minutes.

Suddenly growing irritated at the fact that he'd wasted so much time (he knew he'd regret it!)—precious time for completing that damned ever-growing stack of _paperwork_—he'd ended the staring contest with a bang.

"What? What do you want?!" Damas' inquiry came out as a half snarl and half hysterical comment using his exasperated-parent-inquiry-ability. No, don't ask.

The toddler, only three years old and yet so resilient, simply froze at the tone evident in his father's voice, his blue eyes widening. It didn't occur to Damas that the toddler would cry—_that_ argument was settled months ago after many long—and awkward—silences that took place whenever Damas expected his son to cry, with his wife standing in the sidelines, waiting—just waiting—for him to slip up and do something _so_ horrible that would finally make Jak, the unfalteringly broken water fountain, cry a single tear and gaze at his father, disappointment pulsating from his _eyes_, shake his head meaningly, and waddle away.

Speaking of which, his wife was probably outside buying the groceries. And he'd forgotten to tell her to buy some more diapers... precursors, the smell would be terrible!

A shudder.

Stopping himself from contemplating the diaper-drama to come, Damas decided to focus on what was happening—he gave a careful evaluation of the current situation. He saw his son's deep blue eyes, still wide, his deep green hair messily sprawled _everywhere_ (how was it even possible for it to stick up like that?!) and a thin line that was meant to be his son's mouth, seemingly pursed in hushed contemplation.

Damas swore inwardly at this. 'He's plotting something...' Why did his son have to be so anti-normal? Yes, _anti!_

Way back before Jak had been born, he had acknowledged that his son was going to a little out-of-the-ordinary, taking in the fact that a combination of his calm and passionate personality and his mother's agitated but caring one would no doubt mix together like yin and yang, to then create some kind of mind-blowing (no, mind-_blasting_) amalgamation of the two.

And sure, he was happy his son wasn't some kind of evil dictator planning to rule the world, but this was too much. Had he angered the precursors or some other deity he'd rather not know about?

A silent 'yes' was his answer.

Getting back to the matter at hand (or so that's what _he_ thought), Damas patiently waited for his son's response to his _not_-rhetorical question—he was _not_ growing senile!

There was none.

A lapse in judgement later, the two of them were face to face. The smaller of the two being held by the armpits as looks were exchanged—one of them sending indignant looks while the other continued to simply stare silently.

"What. Is. It?"

Jak blinked, reached out a chubby hand, and aptly pressed on Damas' nose.

"Beep."

And with that _not_-reply from Jak, Damas felt overwhelmingly _dumb_.

----------

After his wife had somehow found out about the whole fiasco, she'd made casual comment on how smitten he must've been (whoever created the word "smitten" in the first place needed to be castrated).

"I did _not_ find it cute."

"Oh, really...?"

"And stop laughing! You're supposed to be on my side!"

------------------------End-------------------------

Edit: Fixed a few grammar mistakes. :c

Read & Flame, good people—read and FLAME!

For those of you that think the title was random, then... err—IT'S POETIC OR SYMBOLIC OR SOMTHING! LEAVE ME ALONE! Q.Q

I am not high on coffee.

Oh yeah, did anyone catch the obvious Simpsons reference? +.+ Wait a second... this probably qualifies as crack, doesn't it?

Un-beta'd

-Skedaddle-San-san-san-san-san-san-SAND CRAB!! :B


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